For just 30 quid, it would appear, you can buy a small piece of land and declare yourself nobility!

Oh dear.

Highland Titles tweeted back, insisting that its business plan was legal and that he didn't know what he was talking about.

They were hearing from one already, it turns out, but since they weren't happy with his opinion, he went out and got some backup:

Further backup also included a law professor at Glasgow University, and at that point it reminded me of the scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is arguing with someone and then he steps over and comes back with the professor whose work they're arguing about, and the professor tells the other guy "you know nothing of my work." It's glorious, but you never get to do that in real life. Or at least you didn't before the internet.

The above is just a small excerpt of the whole exchange, which is definitely worth reading.

Update: Well, of course I remembered that the professor in Annie Hall was Marshall McLuhan, I just didn't happen to mention that. Anyway, it was. According to a source cited by the Wikipedia page, "you know nothing of my work" was "one of McLuhan's most frequent statements to and about those who would disagree with him."

The Itar-TASS news agency (via the BBC) reported in August that cотрудники Томского управления Федеральной службы судебных приставов, не найдя у должницы другого имущества, наложили арест на четырех породистых котят. In other words (English ones), officials of the Federal Bailiff Service (Tomsk Department) "arrested four kittens" as security for a 40,000-ruble debt. In this particular case, the owner had failed to make payments she owed to a company pension fund, so this wasn't a tax debt, they were just seizing "property" to satisfy a judgment.

But the BBC also reported that tax collectors in Novosibirsk got someone to pay 12,000 rubles in back taxes by threatening to seize four of his cats:

When bailiffs arrived at the student's flat, they initially found nothing of value worth seizing—that is until they spied the British Shorthair cat he was holding and three of its kittens running around the place. "Because the animals are pedigree and expensive, the representative of the law decided to place the cat brood under arrest," Interfax quotes a statement from the region's court marshal's service.

Their link to the Interfax report is broken, but in this case I'll go with it anyway given the BBC's generally good reputation and the difficulty of independently researching alleged Siberian cat-brood seizures.

Nor are cats the only animals being taken hostage by Russian officials, according to another Interfax report, this one from Krasnoyarsk and dated just a few days ago. There, bailiffs were trying to collect on a 20,000-ruble judgment for an unpaid utility bill. Apparently seeing nothing else worth grabbing here as well, "[o]бъектом внимания судебного пристава стал кот британской короткошерстной породы по кличке Ясмин и пушистый домашний кролик," or in English, "they became interested in a British Shorthair cat named Yasmin and a fluffy pet rabbit." (I know just enough Russian to be confident that the report's describing the pet rabbit as "fluffy," not talking about "Fluffy the pet rabbit.") They nabbed both pending payment of the debt.

While Russia really has come a long way, the "related stories" box at the end of the Interfax report suggests that the economy still has a long way to go because bailiffs and tax collectors are clearly still taking whatever they can get.

According to his attorney, Mark Besemann "knew there was some sort of dispute over the exact property line" when he bought an acre of land in 2013. Here's where his neighbor claims the exact property line is:

Photo: Bob King/Duluth News Tribune

Of course this only "resolved" the dispute temporarily, because it led to a lawsuit by Besemann against the neighbor, Roger Weber. The case was supposed to go to trial last week but that was postponed to December at Weber's request, according to reports.

Seems likely that's because Weber is running for a seat in the Minnesota House, and would prefer to have the trial after the November election, but I'm just speculating. For all I know, he's planning to embrace the incident and work it into his campaign—I'm thinking something like: "Roger Weber—Not Afraid to Draw the Line" or "Willing to Make the Tough Cuts."

The Democratic incumbent probably could come up with some good lines of her own, but so far she has declined to comment. As this report suggests, that could be because she beat Weber 71-29% in the 2012 election, and does not see the need for any help in the rematch.

The lawsuit seeks $20,000 in property damage, $20,000 in punitive damages, and some amount of additional land as a "buffer zone."

The parties had been divorced in 1971 after a proceeding I assume was also entitled Terrible v. Terrible (hereinafter "Terrible I"). The marital assets included some property with a house on it. While married, the Terribles were "joint tenants," which means each of them had an undivided right to the whole property; for example, one couldn't sell the property or any part of it without the other's consent. The divorce decree provided, however, that the parties would be tenants in common, which means each of them had an undivided one-half interest. That basically means one tenant can sell his or her half-interest without consent, but has no right to sell the whole thing.

A year later, somebody offered to buy the Terrible property, and Mr. Terrible wanted to accept. The former Mrs. Terrible did not, and Mr. Terrible filed this case (hereinafter "Terrible II") to "partition his interest." Ordinarily, a tenant in common has every right to do that, but here Mr. Terrible was screwed because, the court held, he had waived this right by agreeing to let Mrs. Terrible stay put. Terrible II, 534 P.2d at 921.

This is much like the way in which you waived the right to complain about that not being funny by continuing to read after I warned you it would not be.

You'll be glad to know that she has apparently decided not to charge individuals for using the energy emitted by her sun, only companies that use it without her authorization. This is good news for individuals everywhere, especially given that, according to her, she has been fending off legal challenges from other people who also claim to own the hydrogen-fusing G2-class star at the center of our system. Who knows what they might charge? One is apparently a Romanian man who she mocked for not knowing the law. She also claims to have actually been sued by another Spaniard who claimed he owned the entire universe (of which the Sun is allegedly a part), a suit in which she says she prevailed but I'm not buying that until I see some documents.

I'm also not buying any plots of "solar land" from her, although she's letting them go for just 1 euro per square meter. (You don't need to rush, because there are plenty to go around.)

Although you'd think that owning the sun would provide a sufficient revenue stream, Duran says she has diversified. "I also own the Tarzan shout," she says. (Another priceless item that was just sitting around waiting for someone to claim it.) She's selling el grito de Tarzan too, although exactly what she is selling in that regard was not entirely clear to me. Either her own recording of it, or a license to make your own, I assume.

Anyway, if you happen to absorb any solar energy this weekend, you might drop Angeles a line to say thanks.

"[There's a] man sitting in the courtroom, he appears to be in good health," noted Judge Allan Davis on Monday. But by the end of the hearing, that man was dead.

He had also been dead when he walked in, though, so nothing really changed.

As Ryan Dunn of The Courier reported on Tuesday, Donald Eugene Miller Jr., formerly of Arcadia, Ohio, had been declared legally dead in 1994. In fact, Judge Davis was the one who issued that order. After a hearing at which Miller appeared (physically) in an effort to prove he was not actually dead, Davis ruled that despite this fairly compelling evidence of life, in the eyes of the law Miller would have to stay dead.

The reason for this is (if my research is correct, and of course it probably is) Ohio Revised Code section 2121.01 et seq., known as the "Presumed Decedents' Law." Despite the title, the law does not belong to any presumed decedents and certainly does not benefit them in any way. It provides for a "presumption of the death of a person" if he or she:

disappeared and hasn't been heard from in five years;

disappeared less than five years ago after being "exposed to a specific peril of death"; or

Under the law, an interested party can bring an action stating the necessary facts and asking a court to issue a decree stating that the person is presumed dead. The PDL is part of the state's probate code, and so the typical effect is simply to provide that the property of the now-legally dead person can be distributed as if he or she was in fact dead as a doornail. Wills can go through probate, real and personal property can be distributed, life insurance pays out, and so on.

In this case, Miller had been "last reported in Arcadia" in 1986. He testified Monday that he had lost his job, decided to look elsewhere for work, and then it just "kind of went further than I ever expected it to." (I.e., Florida.) After he'd been missing for eight years, his ex-wife asked for the death decree so their children could get Social Security death benefits, and Judge Davis agreed. According to the report, Miller returned to Ohio in 2005, whereupon his parents informed him that he was dead. He's apparently been okay with that for some time, but told the court that he would like to be alive again now so he can get his Social Security card and driver's license back.

Nope.

The Ohio law does provide for situations in which it is later "established that the presumed decedent is alive," which is what Miller was hoping to show by bringing his body to court and proving he was still in it. A death decree can be vacated, at which point the presumed decedent's status is elevated to "person erroneously presumed to be dead," and he or she then has certain rights to recover property. (His ex-wife said she only opposed Miller's motion because she didn't want to have to pay anything back, and noted that he owes about $26,000 in child support.) The problem is that the law is pretty clear that this has to be done "within a three-year period from the date of the decree...." Since 19 is more than three, Miller is still dead.

"I don't know where that leaves you," the judge told him, "but you're still deceased as far as the law is concerned."

Exactly where that does leave him doesn't seem to be clear. On Twitter, for example, one person asked me whether this means "no laws apply to him because he is legally dead? you can't charge a dead man." I can't remember any cases of a dead man being charged with a crime, but I wouldn't put it past our justice system to do that, and here we have a living dead man. So if I were Donald Eugene Miller Jr., I would not take this as a get-out-of-jail-free-because-I'm-dead card. Prosecutors would presumably point to the fact that this law is in the probate code and so should be limited to effects on property, and argue that it would be bad policy to give people immunity just because they happen to be deceased.

But, hang on a second ... Section 2121.04(B) specifically says that "[t]he death of such presumed decedent shall for all purposes under the law of this state be regarded as having occurred as of the date of such decree." Emphasis added. Doesn't say "probate code" or even "property law." I still wouldn't commit any crimes if I were him, but even assuming this is limited to civil law, it has some interesting possibilities. Can he get a job in Ohio? If he can, does he have to pay taxes, or can he file a return every year listing his status as "still deceased"?

Something tells me the IRS has already figured out a way around this little dodge, but the Ohio Legislature may have some work to do.

According to the Seattle Times (via the ABA Journal), 19 U.S. states have laws protecting the right to dry clothes by hanging them outside on clotheslines. Many people think that drying clothes this way is a super-neat and environmentally friendly idea, but homeowners associations call it an ugly and dangerous practice, and say laws protecting it represent heavy-handed state interference in homeowners' rights.

Such laws prevent the associations from telling homeowners what to do with their laundry, you see.

According to the report, a Washington legislator considered a clothesline-protection bill after a bunch of high-school students proposed it, but dropped the idea when lobbyists "came to Olympia intent on crushing the idea." In addition to the argument that hanging underpants outdoors is unsightly and lowers property values, which seems like a reasonable argument, the associations also appear to contend that the lines "pose a strangulation hazard," which doesn't, really. I don't think children could reach them. I guess you could strangle yourself on one if you tried, but I'd like to see the statistics on clothesline strangulations, if any, before making a decision.

These things would definitely impair my ability to ride my motorcycle freely through my neighbors' backyards, which I see as my God-given right as an American, so there is that.

Anyway, if you live in Arizona, California, Colorado, Florida, Hawaii, Illinois, Indiana, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Massachusetts, Nevada, New Mexico, North Carolina, Oregon, Texas, Vermont, Virginia, or Wisconsin (according to the Times), your homeowners' association cannot prohibit a clothesline. Otherwise, you're at its mercy. Currently, the voting in the entirely unscientific poll on the Times's website stands at 95% in favor of the clothesline, 1% against, and 4% totally not caring.

Not only is this crystal skull allegedly the most notable of that country's crystal skulls, it is said to have great cultural significance. The plaintiff alleges it was stolen from a temple and illegally taken out of the country decades ago. Worst of all, he says, this very same skull was featured in the 2008 film, "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," which grossed almost $800 million worldwide, of which Belize has received exactly zero dollars. The plaintiff is therefore suing not only the current possessor of the skull and the estate of those who stole it, but also LucasFilm, Walt Disney and Paramount, seeking not only the return of the skull but also an accounting of profits and so forth and so on.

The lawsuit may or may not be related to the fact that the Institute appears to be promoting trips to Belize (right) to celebrate the ending of the Mayan calendar cycle on December 21.

According to the complaint, while today "archaeologists, anthropologists and tourists alike are drawn to destinations such as Xunantunich in the name of discovery," with great package deals probably available now, 100 years ago it "was coveted for slightly different reasons." Specifically, people wanted to come steal Mayan artifacts. More specifically, F.A. Mitchell-Hedges and his daughter Anna wanted to steal them. In 1924, so the story goes, they found a crystal skull buried under an altar, "a fact [his daughter] would disclose in a documentary produced by NBC ... and aired on the 'SciFi' cable network in 2008." What she disclosed in this documentary—undoubtedly fully vetted by a team of experts at SciFi, the network that brought you "Mansquito"—was that they did indeed find and export the skull and that she had inherited it after her father's death. She died in 2007, according to the complaint, and the "Mitchell-Hedges Skull" now resides with her husband in Chesterton, Indiana.

So what's with the skull? Well, a crystal skull is a crystal that has been carved into the shape of a skull. Not impressed yet? "These artifacts are attributed to Maya origin." Still not impressed? "Associated in today's popular culture with having magical or other supernatural powers"—and that right there is where the bullshit starts to deepen—"each of the four known Crystal Skulls holds tremendous value not only for its rarity but also as a semi-precious stone. There are only three Crystal Skulls on public display worldwide," the complaint alleges, housed at the British Museum, the Smithsonian, and the Musee du Quai Branly in Paris. One of the defendants has the fourth.

I also have one on my shelf, but let's keep that between us for now.

Are these items indeed magic alien crania or Mayan psychic doodads with remarkable powers? Are they priceless Belizian cultural heirlooms? Click below for the surprising answer!

In August, I mentioned the battle going on in Twiggs County, Georgia, over who owned about 400 acres of land there. The people who lived on it thought they owned it, but a guy whose ancestors had lived in the area many years ago (like, pre-Sherman-visit) but who now lives in Colorado, showed up and claimed that he owned it. An interesting twist in the story was that the county courthouse had burned to the ground in 1901, destroying all the county records. "[M]any things in the future will cause Twiggs County people ... to remember the fire which occurred Wednesday night," wrote the Macon Telegraph, probably not foreseeing that one of those things would be a frivolous lawsuit.

That's what it was, according to the special master assigned to the case, who recommended in October that it be dismissed. The judge agreed, and this week he ruled that Allan Evans will have to pay over $100,000 in attorneys' fees that the defendants had to incur in order to fight his claims and keep their property.

The special master's report is over 40 pages long, so let me try to distill it. Evans' claim was based on two deeds supposedly conveyed to his ancestors about 200 years ago. He filed what we in the legal profession call "zillions" of pleadings and summonses and notices and whatnot, very few of which seem to have complied with the law or the court's rules (he represented himself), asserting that he had inherited the interest in the property and demanding that the residents vacate. The special master focused on one important problem with Evans' claim: he had almost no evidence to support it.

Specifically, there was no evidence that either of these ancient deeds had ever been conveyed to anyone in the Evans family, a real problem for somebody claiming to have inherited an interest in them. Even if they had been, the special master pointed out another significant problem with the inheritance argument: Evans' father is still alive. So if there was a valid interest to be had, he would have it, not Evans. (It appears that he either didn't tell Dad about this or that Dad, sensibly, did not want to get involved.) Among the many other reasons Evans lost were "laches"—waiting too long—and the doctrine of adverse possession, which I mention mainly to take credit for having predicted that would be a valid defense.

Conclusion: the case should be dismissed "[d]ue to the claims ... having no foundation in fact, law, or equity ...." Other than that, kudos, Mr. Evans.

In addition to being (hopefully) at least a little embarrassing, that finding now has significant consequences for Evans, because Georgia law allows a judge to order a losing party to pay the other side's attorneys' fees if the judge finds the case "lacked substantial justification" or there was a "complete absence of any justiciable issue of law or fact." That's the authority the judge exercised this week in ordering Evans to pay over $100,000. Possibly he did not realize that every time he filed an unnecessary pleading—and he filed lots—he might be adding to his own bill.

Evans, who did not do himself any favors when he did show up in court, did not show up in court for Tuesday's ruling. He has, for whatever reason, appealed.

This excerpt from a judicial opinion was posted on Reddit as evidence that the practice of law is "interesting and glamorous":

As already observed, one of the fence pickets concededly exceeds the permissible height by approximately 7/8ths of an inch. Under § 5-54 of the applicable ordinance plaintiffs' remedy is to apply to the fence viewer for a removal order. If such an order were obtained and defendants failed to comply therewith within 30 days, plaintiffs would be authorized to have the offending picket removed and would be entitled to recover from defendants double the cost of the removal, plus interest at the rate of 10 percent. To compel strict compliance with those provisions in the present circumstances might needlessly exacerbate an already tense situation and could conceivably lead to further litigation. The possible avoidance of these risks in these peculiar circumstances justifies, we think, our decision to bypass the fence viewer and directly order defendants to comply with the 6-foot height requirement with respect to the offending picket.

I'm guessing whoever posted this was being sarcastic.

This turns out to be from a 1974 opinion by the Supreme Court of Rhode Island. In Piccirilli v. Groccia, the state's highest court grappled with the question whether a fence that was one inch from a property line was a "partition fence" or not. Under the relevant laws, a fence on the property line was a "partition fence" and could only be four-and-a-half feet tall, but a fence elsewhere on the property could be up to six feet high. The defendants apparently put up a six-foot fence just one inch on their side of the property line, which caused the neighbors to go ballistic. Litigation and an appeal followed.

It turns out the same court had considered a similar issue in 1888, when it held that a fence two feet from the line was not a "partition fence." Eighty-six years later, with fence technology having advanced to the point that one could be placed within an inch of a property line, the court had to revisit the question. Based partly on its earlier precedent, the Piccirilli court agreed with the defendants that one inch was far enough. Six-foot fence approved.

But the plaintiffs still had an ace in the hole, if by "ace" you mean "an incredibly trivial point" and by "hole" you mean "a life sufficiently empty of meaning that you care about crap like this." Although the six-foot fence had been approved, the plaintiffs had apparently noticed that "one of the fence pickets or stakes exceeds the ordinance's 6-foot height limitation by about 7/8ths of an inch," a point the defendants conceded at oral argument. This dramatic revelation is what was being addressed in the excerpt above.

Under the law, the court noted, because of this violation the plaintiffs were entitled to apply to the "fence viewer"—apparently a local official whose job is to view fences—for an order requiring the removal of the offending picket. If defendants failed to comply, plaintiffs could go remove it themselves. Well, the court wisely realized that was asking for trouble, and decided under the circumstances to "bypass the fence viewer" and just order defendants to shorten the stupid fence picket.

I hope this has been helpful to anyone considering a career in fence litigation.